by cpiswriting

Driving

I’m nearly seventy years old and I’ve been driving for fifty-five years.  I’ve never had a serious accident, a few fender benders, only one of which was my fault. I’m not a cautious or fearful driver. Most of my friends won’t drive over a tall bridge in our city, preferring to stay within three miles of their home.  They won’t drive twenty minutes away to visit Aldi’s or Lidl’s because “it’s over there.” I’m unafraid. I take long drives from my sunny South to the upper parts of the country to visit family.  I like wide-open roads.

Yet when I must drive anywhere with my son, I relinquish control of the steering wheel to him. 

He likes to point out the mistakes I’m making as I drive.  Where I should be speeding up or how to avoid as-yet-to-develop road hazards.  He is a nervous passenger and his constant criticisms, in the guise of offering helpful remarks, makes me crazy.  I’d rather let him drive than listen to it.

My daughter, on the other hand, keeps those comments to herself.  I can drive her anywhere and she never suggests I make a right or hit the brakes or asks me why I’m in the right-hand lane.  She either trusts that I know what I’m doing or at least, that I won’t get us killed, or she is an expert actress deserving of an Academy Award.  When she drives, I sit back and enjoy the ride.

My son worries about me. He worries in the way sons worry about a widowed mother.  I should sell my house.  I should invest in gold.  I should drink this disgusting tea which will keep me healthier and living longer. I love that he worries. I don’t take his advice, but I love that he keeps trying to give it.

I don’t think my daughter worries about me. Possibly because I think my daughter believes I’m invincible, and possibly because she’s too busy with toddlers and kindergarteners and making things work at home to worry about one more thing. She tells my grandson that I can run practice baseball with him because I’m not like other grandmas. She never asks me how I’m doing financially.  She doesn’t ask me about my health. And it’s not because she doesn’t care.  I think it’s because she doesn’t see anything to worry about.

My son sees me as a problem waiting to happen.  My daughter sees me as a mom, like herself, who cannot slow down or things will fall apart.

I wonder which one will take my car keys away from me when it’s time? 

by cpiswriting

Reading and Writing

I’ve been reading more than I’ve been writing this month. Sometimes that happens. I need to recharge. Such as it is now, during the early onset days of summer. I find myself sitting in a chair, staring through a window at the vines taking over my back fence, a book held loosely in my lap. And that’s OK.

I’ll get busy again. For now, however, I ruminate over other authors’ words and feel their sweetness in my mouth. Damn, that’s good, I think. And no jealousy- you might think we’re jealous of one another- but no, we wish, however, we could gather up those words the way an ink-well collector accumulates antique ink pots, to look at them and treasure them at will.

Enemy Women by Paulette Jiles

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Absolutely divine book. I didn’t know anything about the events described in Jiles’ well-researched historical fiction novel set during the Civil War. I admire her writing style and even more so, her strong woman characters.

Well-paced, interesting, and stick-to-your-bones good writing.

by cpiswriting

Layers

If you look at an onion from the outside, you see paper thin skin, peeling, fragile. Perhaps a green shoot pokes from the pointy top, the onion left too long in the spidery web plastic bag among its onion pals. Or maybe a sooty mold has taken the onion by surprise, easing its black rot into unsuspecting flesh.
You reach in the onion bag, hanging on a nail in the pantry, and you grab an onion, trusting it will be an onion worthy of your time, worthy of the fine olive oil you have heating to a translucent shimmer in the copper-bottomed pan on the stove. And when you slice into the onion, you step back. Its sharp smell hits you squarely between your eyes, even though you were expecting it, even prepared for it. Still, it takes you by surprise. Tears squeeze past your closed eyes. It takes you a moment to recover enough to carry on with the preparations.
Slowly now, you slide your fingernail beneath its outer layer. The onion’s papery skin comes away, and some bits cling to your wet hands. You try to flick them off, but of course, they stick. Those may find their way into your sauce, or not. You look down at the layers. Layer upon layer of onion, nested close to one another, fitting perfectly in concentric circles. Dependent upon one another to be exactly where each should be.
Some onions have mold. Some have green shoots growing despite a dark pantry closet. All have layers and layers of complexity built into them. Not unlike ourselves.  Not unlike our families.